


If we talk, will you listen?

by gen_is_gone



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 5 Things, Autistic Julian Bashir, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, M/M, an undercurrent discussion of trauma past and current, even though it doesn't directly come up, genteel Cardassian flirtation, or at least written as such by an certified Autistic, writing around poor canon choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28423245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gen_is_gone/pseuds/gen_is_gone
Summary: Five conversations over lunch; an invitation to dinner
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	If we talk, will you listen?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EffieAgo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffieAgo/gifts).



> My Fandom Trumps Hate gift to [EffieAgo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffieAgo/pseuds/EffieAgo), who generously donated to the Transgender Legal Defense and Education Fund.

1.  
It starts over two cups of tea and a long, supposedly entirely theoretical conversation about revenge, and duty. 

Julian had decided, impulsively, to accept Mister—no, just _plain, simple_ Garak’s invitation to lunch, the week following Tahna Los’s arrest. They’d set a date, well, not a _date_ , but a time (1400 hs) and place (the Replimat) for a Thursday. He’d agonized far more than the social function deserved, badgering Lt. Dax until even she, ever patient, delicately suggested that he might be better off not overthinking it. 

He finds his way to the Replimat as the lunch crowd is beginning to disperse, fleetingly wishing they might have scheduled their lunch on one of his days off, to give him an opportunity to wear the suit Garak had pressed him into buying. He wavers back and forth over whether that would be too forward, somehow. It’s not as though they’re friends. Garak said he wanted them to be, but really, that was almost certainly a ploy to get a point of contact on the senior staff, and thus a channel of communication to Commander Sisko. _Besides_ , a nasty inner voice adds, _who would want to be friends with_ you _?_ He waves that thought away before it can settle and ruin the rest of his day, as intrusive thoughts are wont to. Regardless of Garak’s true intentions, the man is undoubtedly an interesting conversationalist. He spots a motion in the throng, sees the man in question waving him over, and goes to meet him where he waits, patient to the point of prim, beside a tower garden pillar. 

Garak notices Julian’s somewhat uncertain little wave hello, and a broad smile spreads across his face as he beckons Julian closer. 

Garak places a hand at his back in an oddly proprietary gesture as they wind through the line to the replicators. ““Ah, Doctor Bashir! I’m so pleased you could make it,” he greets Julian with a flattering degree of ebullience.

They settle both with tea; Julian’s, Tarkelean, Garak’s, red leaf. Garak is indeed an interesting conversationalist. His affect is not entirely avuncular, though that seems to be the performance he is aiming at. Performance is an apt word, Julian decides. Everything Garak does he does with the air of an experienced stage-performer, in his element as he works a receptive audience. Far from being off-putting, it’s every bit as entertaining as Garak evidently intends. Julian lets himself be charmed and disarmed as Garak takes control of the opening salvo of small talk. He’s never been very good at it himself, but his dining partner is a master. Garak regales him with the petty dramas of the past week in his tailor’s shop, and makes the story of a rude interaction with an irate Tholian silk merchant as funny as any holosuite comedy of manners. He finds himself talking back, with more than the usual ease. Unlike many people Julian talks to, Garak actually seems interested in what Julian has to say, and he finds himself telling his own amusing anecdotes from Sickbay (patient information redacted, of course) without the usual obsessive searching for tells that the listener is not interested. Despite years of lectures from his mother, he’s not very good at noticing these tells, but the fear of verbal overreach hangs over all his conversations anyways. He genuinely can’t tell when it’s happening, which only adds to his stress. 

Probably inevitably, the conversation meanders back to the topic of current events as the lunch hour winds down. Naturally, Garak has opinions, though not quite the ones Julian’s expecting. 

“You know,” Garak says thoughtfully, “this whole sorry affair reminds me of a novel I read recently.” He taps one clawed finger against the edge of his tray, and looks at Julian, strangely expectant. It takes him several seconds (27, if he’s counting) to realize that Garak is waiting for Julian to prompt him further. He plays along. “And what novel would that be?” he asks, and Garak smiles approvingly. 

“ _All the Water in the Desert_ , by Tekala Noval. It is a fictionalized account of Alon Lakaar and his legacy, both as the founder of Lakarian City, and as an instrumental member of the First Council of the New Cardassian State. While some liberties have been taken in the dramatization, as is to be expected of a biopic, it stands on its own merits.” 

“What about a piece of Cardassian historical fiction reminds you so much of Tahna?” he asks, curiosity now genuinely piqued. Garak leans in, warming to his theme.

“It is a tale of revenge, of intergenerational trauma and adversity, how the sins of the father dictate the actions of the son. Lakaar must grapple with his bitter destiny if he is to overcome it, and in doing so must face that most desperate test of loyalty: that of duty to the family versus duty to the State! It’s stern stuff, even by the standards of a novel of historical politics. I take it you can grasp its relevance?” 

He’s positively brimming with enthusiasm, and surprisingly, this doesn’t appear to be a performance. That intrigues and delights Julian all the more. “I take your point,” he says.

“So it is with the unfortunate Mr. Tahna, so it is with the House of Duras, and so it is with the Lakaar family. A skilled novelist draws from those most genuine of places in the heart, and most true to life interpersonal journeys.” They’ve both finished their meals, and yet Julian finds himself reluctant to leave. 

“It sounds well-worth a look. I’d love to read it,” he says, and Garak beams. 

“Would you really? By all means! I would love to hear a human’s thoughts on the book. I think you’ll find it quite an engaging read. I’ll send you a data crystal, and if you would be amenable, we can meet to discuss as you read, say, this time next week?”

Julian grins. “I would definitely be amenable.”

They rise, and Julian makes an abortive motion to shake Garak’s hand. He forgets, sometimes, that most other species tend to be at least a little more touch-averse than humans, and that many have far more intimate connotative ritual attached to the clasping of hands. A Vulcan classmate at the Academy in his second year had inquired as to why, with Julian’s high level of cognitive recall, he so frequently failed to remember standard social cues. They hadn’t meant it as a reprimand, merely a request for clarifying information, but it still made him cringe to remember. No amount of augmentation had improved his grasp of body language and social etiquette. 

Garak notices the gesture, surprisingly, and smiles disarmingly again. “Don’t worry my dear,” he effuses, “My people do not have any particular taboo against the linking of hands.” He takes Julian’s hand in his; it’s cool, dry, and subtly rough in one direction, the scales so minute as to mimic human skin from a distance. Garak places both of their palms flat together, a distinctly non-human gesture, and for a second Julian sees a hidden mirth in his eyes before it smooths away into a more explicable pleasant cheeriness. 

“It has been a pleasure to share your company Doctor,” Garak says. “I do so hope this is the beginning of a long and warm friendship.” Julian finds himself hoping so as well. After Lt. Dax, Garak would be a second friend, a luxury he can barely contemplate. 

It is only some hours later that it occurs to him that Garak might have been lying about the intimacy of joining hands. 

2.  
Garak is insufferably smug this week at lunch, and in expansive good spirits. Clearly, whatever prior relationship he has with Gul Dukat is one of animosity and mutual bad blood, because in the just over a year since he met the man, this is the most gleeful Julian has ever seen him. 

“You know,” Garak says while gathering his tray and stepping into line for the replicator, “I’m having the strangest craving for hasperat. Now, far be it for me to heap overmuch praise on my social inferiors, but one must admit, the good people of Bajor make excellent chefs.” 

Julian is uncomfortable with the “social inferiors” remark, and opens his mouth to reprimand his friend when Garak beats him to it. “My apologies, Doctor,” he says, waving a rueful hand. “Old habits and all that. I know your people don’t believe in a hierarchy of race, class, or species. I can certainly respect that ideological stance, though you can hardly disagree, there are definitely people and cultures undeserving of this attitude—Not that I would count the Bajorans among them,” he adds. 

It’s an infuriating response, and Julian prepares to launch into an explanation of why it’s exactly the sort of inappropriate comment he expects Garak to rise above, when he notices the grin broadening further on Garak’s face. “You’re provoking me, aren’t you?” he accuses, attempting (and probably failing to achieve) a repressive scowl. Garak inclines his head. 

“Guilty as charged, my dear Doctor.” He doesn’t look guilty. “Did you know, the color rises beautifully in your face whenever you start one of your passionate lectures? It’s most becoming.”

“It’s not funny,” he grouses. “Even if you are just mocking Dukat, as far as microaggressions in a Bajoran station go, it’s pretty damned inappropriate.” Garak seems to take the point, though he pats Julian’s hand somewhat indulgently. 

“You are right of course, Doctor. I must admit, feeling morally superior to a certain subset of my countrymen is no excuse for such behavior. I shall be more respectful in my approach to pestering you.”

He’s still not sure at all that Garak means a word he says, though he sounds contrite enough.

“Garak,” Julian opens, then hesitates, trying to phrase the question delicately, both because he doesn’t want to imply anything overly untoward, and because unspoken subtlety is perhaps the most important part of their game. Garak waits for him to gather his thoughts, all polite inquisitiveness. 

“What exactly were you hoping to achieve, locating Rugal’s father? It hardly seems like the most ideal outcome for the boy—obviously, you would disagree,” he adds as Garak opens his mouth, most certainly to stick on that point and digress. “But you must admit, returning to Cardassia with Padar didn’t exactly make Rugal happy.” Garak purses his lips at this, caught somewhere between disapproving and wistful. “Happiness is irrelevant to the sacred demands of filial piety, Doctor.” he says. “One’s parents are not meant to contribute to one’s happiness. We serve our fathers, and venerate our mothers, and if we are righteous, we do it with no expectation of commensurate reward.” Julian wants to protest that it shouldn’t work that way, but in his own experience at least, he can’t argue. 

“As for what I had hoped to achieve, reuniting young Rugal with his real father,” and yes, Julian notes the delicate emphasis on the word _real_ , “is it not enough to wish for one family to be healed, one small act of justice to come out of the end of this bitter war and even more bitter withdrawal?”

It’s a moment of unexpected honesty, like a patch of sunlight breaking through clouds. He watches as his ever-enigmatic dining companion seems to notice the pensive cast to his own features, and carefully schools his expression back to one of the previous smirks. Julian takes the cue to move past the moment.

“No,” he replies, though he allows some amusement to color his tone. “Nothing is ever simple with you Garak. Why have one motive when six will do, eh?” 

Garak rolls his eyes, and sighs long-sufferingly. “Why must you cast such wounding aspersions upon my character, Doctor?” Julian raises one eyebrow, and Garak shrugs, as if to grant him the point. 

“Really though Doctor,” he adds, more serious now, “while there may indeed have been ulterior motive at play, my intentions toward young Rugal were always compassionate. It is never wrong to assume that any ploy of Skrain Dukat’s will be not only unimaginative, but dangerous. That the boy was an abandoned war orphan didn’t hurt, of course. You may not believe it based on Dukat’s conduct, but we really do revere our children, even those among us not blessed with our own.” He looks briefly vulnerable, like he’s admitted something he shouldn’t have. 

“Well,” he cheerfully admits, “I suppose arranging for an inconvenient political gaffe to befall a most unpleasant man is a happy accident to have come out of the whole debacle. And besides, I am of course always happy to supplement your woeful under-education in matters of recent history, Doctor.” He makes a face. “I can assure you however, that I did not in any way intend for the boy to bite me.”

3.  
The Garak who returns to him following the destruction of the Obsidian Order fleet is worryingly subdued. Obviously. Why wouldn’t he be? Julian can’t understand what hold Tain had over Garak, but it was clearly more than just fear of a former employer’s retribution. The previous week, Julian had received a painfully cordial subspace note informing him that Garak wouldn’t be able to meet for lunch, what with all the work still needing to be done clearing and repairing his shop, and hoped that Julian would forgive him for canceling on such short notice. Julian is desperately upset, not because of the cancelled lunch, but because Garak is so clearly in exactly the kind of pain Julian is not qualified to treat. It really is a shame that Starfleet has not thought to supply the station with a suitably trauma-informed psychological treatment team, though he is certain Garak would never make use of them. But more than that, his friend is grieving, and suffering from the aftereffects of whatever transpired aboard Tain’s ship, and Julian has no idea how to help him. He isn’t at all sure that there is anything he could do that Garak would accept, but even if an objectively correct way to offer sympathy and support existed, Julian doesn’t know where to even begin implementing it. 

He is examining this whole tangle from the perspective of a puzzle that could be solved if one were to merely follow a logical progression of intermediate steps, he observes. Julian is well aware that that isn’t how people actually work, but the part of him that still frequently fails to accurately gauge ostensibly straightforward social interactions wails in the back of his mind that _it should_. This, he thinks grimly, is why he went into general practice and clinical pathology, rather than psychiatry. While yes, almost all psychiatric illness can be traced directly to neurology, injury and disease located in the physical brain as well as the heart, gut, central nervous system, and all of the rest of the body, when it comes to distress beneath the level of clinical diagnosis, other people’s emotions have never been a strong suit of his. Julian can barely manage his own. 

While he wants to be encouraged by today’s invitation to lunch, Julian hopes Garak isn’t pushing himself. They meet, and exchange the usual pleasantries, though he already sees the strain on Garak’s face and the set to his shoulders. His usual performance is notably absent. Julian is finding it difficult to think of anything normal to say. Anything is either too trivial, or too personal. The uncharacteristic silences between fraught scraps of conversation stretch excruciatingly, and he fidgets a little in his seat. He can’t remember the last time he felt a great loss for words around Garak, even when his neural transmitter was breaking down and affecting his friend’s behavior in all manner of erratic ways. 

Garak appears equally uncomfortable with this state of affairs. “You might be interested to know that I have had cause to think further about _Julius Caesar_ , Doctor,” he says abruptly. Julian seizes desperately onto the subject. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “I’m always glad to hear you’ve taken my thoughts into account. When was this? What were you thinking about?” He hopes he doesn’t come across too eager, then wonders why he cares. Garak has never faulted him for his excitement before.

“It was on the warbird, as the fleet was destroyed,” he starts, and Julian winces. Of course Garak’s thoughts would still be there. It would be remiss of him to assume Garak wasn’t still grieving. “I had a striking flash of the deep irony of the situation, and quoted Cassius’s famous line to Tain. He of course didn’t recognize it, let alone its apparent significance to humans.” 

“Tain,” Garak muses. “It occurs to me to ponder more closely his continuing, ceaseless role in the drama of my life. As bitterly as I may have cast us both as the underlings to the Founders’ Caesar, I fear that even now, more truthfully, I am still Brutus, the betrayer. I told him then that I hadn’t really betrayed him in my heart, and he scoffed.” He closes his eyes and continues. “Tain was far too heavy to carry to the transporter against his will; the Constable had enough trouble dragging me bodily away from him. You know,” he murmurs, eyes lidded and frighteningly difficult to read, “I would like to think that had my hand not been forced, I would have gone down with him. But at the time, a small, quite vicious part of me, for just a fraction of an instant, wanted desperately to leave him behind. And even now, a small part of me is, reprehensibly, glad that he is dead. _‘Brutus is an honorable man’_.” 

When he opens his eyes again, there is a smile on his face. Julian thinks he is beginning to recognize the truth in the lies on his friend’s face. “Loathe though I may be to admit it, you have proven the winner of this little literary debate. I hadn’t known the play’s true tragic potential until I found myself living it.”

It is perhaps the most baldly honest Garak has ever been to him, and shamefully, a small part of Julian wishes he were less so. His heart aches for Garak, but every response running through his head sounds trite and inconsiderate. He isn’t sure whether it’s worse to say something useless or nothing at all. 

“I’m sorry, that sounds awful,” he starts, and Garak sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t need your pity, Doctor, though I’m sure the sentiment is well-meant. I am merely being maudlin, and really, I am embarrassed by my own behavior. I came here to spend an enjoyable lunch with you, not hold you a captive audience to the unpleasantness of my personal failures.”

“N-no, Garak, that’s not what I mean at all,” he stammers.

He’s fumbling this, it’s going to be awkward, Garak is going to clam up and finally be too overcome with secondhand embarrassment to continue associating with him at all, and the issue will never be addressed properly, because Garak won’t address it. Julian shuts his mouth, takes a deep breath, and starts over.

“Look,” he starts, winces, and continues, “You don’t need to talk to me. Hell, you don’t _need_ to talk to anyone, but I sincerely hope you’ll at least give yourself a break. It’s not your fault that Tain is dead, Garak. By your own account, he wasn’t going to leave the ship. I know you won’t agree, but for what it’s worth, whatever you owe to him matters less than what you owe to yourself, and what you owe to yourself is kindness. And if you won’t accept kindness from yourself, then. Well. Accept it from me.” He attempts something like a grin. “You’ll have to, because I won’t leave you alone until you do. I recall you saying something to the effect of, ‘I’m annoying like that’.” He isn’t sure he can read the emotion on Garak’s face, beyond knowing that it’s there. 

Garak examines his plate with a ferocious intensity Julian imagines must have served him well in countless interrogation rooms. He grips the table’s edge with both hands, so hard he almost shakes with the strain. Julian has no idea if he’s said the right thing or not.

“Garak,” he says softly. His friend notices the strength with which he is clenching his hands, and releases the edge of the table. There are sharp impressions left in both of his palms. He takes a deep breath and looks up to meet Julian’s gaze. 

“Your concern is quite touching Doctor, really,” he says. He must still sense the worry in Julian’s face, because he sighs, and for the briefest moment, he brushes his hand over Julian’s. 

“Thank you Julian. Truly.” he murmurs. Julian almost starts, and he notices the change. In three years, this is probably (definitely) the first time Garak has called him by his given name. 

4.  
He will have to collapse at some point. It’s all too much, and he keeps fading in and out of focus, a high pitched keen of tinnitus eating up cognitive space at the back of his brain. After a month and half of utter nothing interspersed with brutal and unstoppable violence, the return to DS9 has been more mental/emotional stimulation than he knows how to handle, and Julian is approximately one loud, unexpected noise from the sort of meltdown he hasn’t had since he was five, and still had meltdowns. 

There is no time, right now, for him to lose it. The past two weeks have accelerated as he watched momentous and historical events unfold around him with the same speed as stars rushing past through a window at high warp. He has been debriefed no less than four times, and asked (with appropriate Federation politesse, and when had _that_ bitter sentiment crept into his innermost thoughts?) to recount his abduction, detainment, and escape first to Captain Sisko privately, then the rest of senior staff, then to Starfleet Command and Intelligence, and lastly to Jabara and his senior medical staff, both to assess the potential damage the Changeling might have wrought in Julian’s absence, and to better gauge his, Worf’s, and Martok’s treatment needs. Worf required the most immediate treatment for the catastrophic injuries dealt to him by Ikat’tika and the other Jem’Hadar. Julian and Martok were both suffering from varying levels of malnutrition, and Martok had his own battle wounds to think of, poorly healed or not at all with only Julian’s pathetic attempts at triage in the last month or so to stave off further damage. Some time spent on an intravenous saline drip, a few vitamin C hypoinjections, and a carefully curated meal plan to slowly reintroduce lost nutrients without the risk of refeeding syndrome would heal Julian in a matter of days, at least physically. He doesn’t want to think about the psychological end of his treatment. He has mandated semi-weekly therapist sessions over a subspace video conference (Starfleet has still yet to send the psych specialist team Julian has now requested twice over the past four years) which fill him with both profound relief and profound dread. He has been predictably diagnosed with Acute Traumatic Stress Disorder, and has been reassured of the favorable statistics indicating that most incidents of aTSD resolve easily with time and treatment. 

While that is indeed reassuring, it does nothing for him now. His life since he and the others escaped has been one concerned conference after another, and while his friends and colleagues have been nothing but supportive, offering him space and a supportive ear in equal measure, Julian still feels like he’s had no chance to catch his breath, to _stop_ and let things settle. Given the state of international affairs, it’s unlikely anybody will be able to let things settle for quite some time to come. 

He’s having lunch with Garak today, in a perhaps overconfident attempt to do as Dr. T'Pav has suggested and reassert control over his life and environment in small, achievable ways. In truth, he’s been looking forward to the chance to talk to Garak, really talk to him rather than simply corroborate intelligence reports and pass off his treatment plan to Jabara. Julian is keenly aware that something has necessarily changed between them, and while Garak is most unlikely to speak of anything that happened at Internment Camp 371 openly, Julian still wants to at least start the conversation. 

He arrives before Garak, and finds his way to the replicator to get his lunch first, so he can save their table. Somewhat guiltily, he forgoes his meal plan and sticks to tea; he can’t stomach food right now, and the combined smells of everyone else’s meals are unusually revolting, a sure sign of increased sensory sensitivity. This probably isn’t wise. He doesn’t care. He wants to see Garak, sit down at their usual table and carry on as though everything is perfectly normal. He scans the crowd and is alarmed that he can’t see more than a roiling blur; a wave of nausea rolls over him. 

All of a sudden the Replimat is too much, too many people, too many smells, too many stray, disparate noises bleeding into each other in a hideous disjointed drone and Julian’s heart jumps into his throat and the tray slips from fingers suddenly shaking from lack of blood, as it flows to his heart and leaves his limbs loose and weak. There is a hand immediately at his elbow, another catching and righting the tray, arresting its fall. “Perhaps we might be better served taking our lunch privately today, my dear,” comes Garak’s voice in his ear, barely comprehensible above all the other sounds. “My quarters are suitably quiet, and as you know, the lights are dim, if you would be amenable.” He thinks he must have nodded, but he finds he’s shut his eyes without noticing, and he can’t quite be sure. 

“Here, let me dispose of this before we leave”, says Garak, meaning the tray. He says other things. Julian isn’t sure what. He nods again and allows Garak to gently steer him to lean against one of the corners, out of the way of foot traffic, and briefly leaves. After probably not many minutes, Garak returns, and again takes Julian’s elbow to guide him out of the Replimat. He blinks, and they’re in the turbolift, moving up. The quiet after the noise presses against him like a physical weight, and his arms are wrapped around his torso. His head is bobbing, not quite rocking, and he sways, shutting his eyes again. He opens them, and they’re in Garak’s quarters. The lights are as dim as they always are, and the temperature is a baking 26 degrees. A normal human would not be able to hear the hum of heated air, and Garak definitely can’t, but the noise echoes around Julian’s skull in the absence of louder sounds. Even so, it’s still a relief, so powerful he could weep. He allows himself to be maneuvered to Garak’s couch.

“Lie down, my dear.” Garak’s voice is softer than usual, and the hand that presses him gently backward is cool through the collar of his shirt. He lets his eyes fall closed again.

“You really should eat, you know,” Julian hears softly and close by. He has no idea what time it is. He hasn’t been asleep, but Garak put him on the couch and then he blinked again and he’s not sure how much time has passed, aside from knowing somehow that it’s been far longer than the few seconds he remembers. It’s frightening, losing time. He hasn’t disassociated with this intensity since he was a teenager. A cool hand brushes his hair back from his eyes, and with far more effort than it should reasonably take, he drags his head up enough to look into Garak’s face. He half-expects to find frustration or contempt, and wonders if Garak would be insulted at the thought. In any case, he sees only tenderness, and concern. A rush of emotion threatens to choke him, rises like a wave and then, to his relief, recedes. 

“What time is it?” His voice is ragged. 

“It is 1657.” He groans softly as Garak continues, “I called Nurse Jabara and informed her that you were engaged, and would be unable to complete your shift. She was very accommodating, and has adjusted your schedule and covered your shifts accordingly.” Julian winces. He’s sure she was. He is well aware of how discreetly understanding Jabara can be, and how sympathetic. He wishes he could just be grateful for her, and not feel the coil of shame at the thought of anyone else _accommodating_ him. There should be no shame in that, but seventeen years of living with Richard Bashir and his moods had left Julian far more accommodating of others’ vulnerabilities than his own. 

“You do not have to fear judgement from me Julian. I assure you, there is nothing you could do that would merit it.” His face is very close. For a moment, Julian is not sure what is going to happen, before Garak leans over him and presses a kiss to his forehead. “As I have found reason to trust you, my dear,” he murmurs, “so you may be assured, you can trust me in return.”

Everything Julian wants to say, about lunch, about Tain’s sri’Tal and death, about the threat of war looming over all of them, wants to force its way out of his throat at once. He can’t say anything, _he can’t say anything_. He reaches up and hugs Garak with a force neither of them were expecting, rocking them both a little. He hopes it can say what he can’t. _Thank you_ , and _I trust you_ , and _I lo—_

Even that.

5.  
When he gets the subspace note inviting him to lunch with Garak, Julian’s honestly surprised. That’s a little sad, and he is uncomfortably aware that it has been months since the last one. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s a little annoyed at Garak, as discomfiting as it is to admit. Over the past year, Garak has grown more distant, less likely to seek him out at work or message him throughout the day. Obviously, there’s a war on, and Julian can’t reasonably expect Garak to devote as much of his now considerably limited leisure time to their not-quite-a-book-club, but there was a time when the two of them had been inseparably close, a time when Julian had almost thought—but that isn’t really relevant. 

It occurs to him, with all due sense of irony, that they are carrying on as if this is all some repetitive epic, drawing near only to flinch away, circling, spiraling around and towards each other but never, ever touching. He can’t for the life of himself rationalize his anger at Garak, but nor can he rid himself of it. Julian misses him, achingly. It’s been months since the last time they ate together, and even then, things had seemed oddly strained, the conversation stilted. The easy arguing didn’t come naturally the last few times they met for lunch, and he wonders with a sudden, dizzying plunge of grief, if they’re simply drifting apart. Obviously that has happened to him before, many times before, especially in childhood, but that was because he’d never had friends close enough to keep in touch with after yet another move. Until DS9, he’d never had friends it would hurt much to lose. 

He fights down an odd sensation of apprehension as finds Garak already seated at their usual table. As he recalls, the last time they’d had a lunch together had been right before Sloane had “recruited” (read: coerced) him into an espionage gig on behalf of Section 31 at the Romulan medical conference. For a moment, things had seemed normal; they’d talked and joked the way they’d had a year previously, then he’d heard next to nothing from Garak until now. Julian doesn’t know what changed since then. He gives his friend a brief, perfunctory smile as he slides into his seat. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he opens, only to be interrupted. 

“No need for apologies, Doctor,” Garak says by way of greeting. “It would hardly be the first time.” He coughs delicately. “I’m sure these lunches must feel frivolous in light of your other commitments.” Julian can feel the flush rise in his face at his mortification. He’d really hoped Garak wasn’t going to have this talk right now, that they could just have a pleasant lunch together.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, “it’s just, I really have been busy—” Garak cuts him off with a wave of his hand. 

“As I recall, Doctor, you have had a number of other flirtations to attend to of late. It is hardly any of my business, but it does sting, somewhat, to be put aside so easily.”

He says it airily, with an affected posture of jest, but Julian can hear the note of seething pique under the light words. He can read Garak as well as he ever could. That at least, he hasn’t lost. The implication rankles, not the least because he suspects the accusation might have some small merit. The conversation is souring quickly, slipping out of Julian’s control. He wonders if this was actually an offer to catch up at all. 

“If you’re talking about Miles, I know it seems like we’ve been spending all our free time together lately, but he has a family who needs his attention; we don’t actually have many opportunities each week to relax. I would hope you could be more flexible, considering you don’t have children or a spouse...” He blanches as he hears himself say it and sees the quickly hidden grimace on Garak’s face. He knows by now how Garak once longed for a family of his own, the closed-off look on his face at the mention of orphans, bastards, and mixed-race Cardassian children. He remembers the way Garak mourned Ziyal. 

His friend purses his lips with a dismissive look. “Oh, Chief O’Brien has no quarrel with me,” he says silkily. “No, really Doctor, you mustn't think you need concern yourself with my feelings. I assure you, the company you keep is no business of mine.” His voice is flat, performatively placid and eerily polite. “After all,” he adds, “we’re hardly the closest of friends.”

And that _hurts_. It hurts to hear him say that. To confirm everything Julian has ever feared, not just from Garak but from literally every person he’s ever halfway cared about. 

“It’s just that I didn’t realize you were so accommodating of your friends’ families,” Garak goes on, still in that awful, falsely polite voice, “given the vehemency of your feelings about the late Commander Dax’s forays into motherhood—or does that sentiment apply only to those of your friends you haven’t had the chance to _fuck_? I am well aware of your preference for what is unavailable over what offers itself freely.” 

He says it, Julian hears it, and something inside him snaps, almost audibly. In an instant, he is more angry than he remembers being at anyone he lo— anyone other than his parents. 

“Wait, this is about _Jadzia_?!” he says, disbelieving.Of all the disgusting, petty things to hold over his head, to hold a _grudge_ about—

“Is that why you’ve been angry with me for most of a year? Because I had one last burst of irrational jealousy over a relationship that never happened and was never going to happen, and I confided it to you, you’ve been sulking for a goddamned _year_?” 

There is more going on here, there is something very obvious happening right in front of him, something hidden that Garak is trying to say, but he is suddenly far too furious to grasp it, and is sure he doesn’t want it. Not if this insult is its price. 

“Jadzia was one of my best friends, and she is dead, and I can’t believe that you, Garak, of all people, would so petty as to drag her memory into your animosity towards me. I was a bad friend, and I was angry with her for starting a family right as I was sure my life was about to fall apart and the only thing anyone would need or want from me was my Augmented mind, and now she’s dead, and I have to live with my last feelings towards her being selfish, childish rage. I _lost_ her, Garak, we all did, and I was too caught up in my own ego to be happy for her.”

Julian is aware that by now his voice is raised, but grief and outrage are drowning out the small voice of reason pointing this out. Garak looks startled, and the expression on his face is genuine. 

“I apologize for the insinuation, Julian, _sincerely_ ,” he says softly. “I hope you realize I did not mean to cast aspersions on your grief. It was remiss of me not to realize it. My own jealousy made me cruel.” 

Garak indeed sounds sincere, and some of Julian, hell _most_ of Julian, wants to just believe him, and forgive him, and be done with the whole wretched thing, but there _is_ a war on, and every day he spends either in gruesome triage or frantic research, and every night he collapses into bed and wishes more than anything that someone else was in charge. He spends hours plotting with Miles, trying to win an impossible battle whose historical outcome they both at times will guiltily admit probably isn’t appropriate fare for roleplay, as outside the holosuites, the war rages on, worsening at every turn. He’s damned tired, and miserable, and more than anything he misses Jadzia, and hates how he allowed himself to act, out of childishness and spite. A year’s exhaustion and anger metastasizes in an instant, and he swears he hears his father’s voice as he snaps, “I don't know why I even bothered telling you. Of course it wouldn’t occur to you to grieve, all you know how to do is cultivate _assets_.” 

The remark drips from his lips like poison, like acid, every word meant to maim. He regrets it, of course he regrets it, the minute he hears himself say it. But these aren’t words he can walk back without consequence. Garak goes very still, his face shuttering into an emotionless mask. 

“Then it seems we have very little left to say to each other, Doctor,” he says quietly. 

A thousand rejoinders cross Julian’s mind in the instant it takes to hear and process Garak’s words. _Elim please_ , and _I’m sorry_ , and _don’t do this to me_ all flash like lightning, die on the tip of his tongue, and what he actually says, to his own dull horror, is “I suppose you’re right. Good day, Mister Garak.”

In one motion, he rises and turns quickly away, striding out of the Replimat and desperately wishing Garak would call out to him. He won’t. Julian knows the man too well by now. 

A few days later, Ezri invites him to lunch at Quark’s. Julian studiously ignores his own outrage at himself and accepts, pretending he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, again. He tries not to think too hard about it. She’s the only Dax around. 

1.  
It ends in the terminal at Cardassia City’s space port, in the heavy air and the heat, searching, still searching, for a familiar face in a milling crowd. 

He is out of uniform, his shirt and trousers long, light, and loose, as Garak recommended, and a good thing too, with the climate. He has taken two weeks of leave, with the intention of scoping out Cardassia for a new post with one of the Federation’s humanitarian crisis teams. No one can deny that Cardassia needs doctors. This both is and isn’t the reason for his trip. In truth, he’d been contemplating requesting a transfer of commission for a few months now, oscillating back and forth on whether he thought it was a good idea. The station feels different. He really wishes it didn’t. It felt like, despite the war, he had finally found a home, a place to feel settled, to really belong. He had real friends, for the first time in his life. All of that changed in what felt like a matter of days. He’s never been good with change, despite his upbringing. He thinks it might have actually been easier to cope with being constantly uprooted when he was child, before he’d ever had anything else to compare it to. He got seven years on DS9, of more or less happiness, of real friends, and the crisis and instability of the war somehow couldn’t shake the feelings of _home_ , and _safe_ , and even _loved_ ; the station granted Julian something he had never known he could have. In retrospect, he was unusually lucky in that regard. 

It had felt like half the station left after the Treaty was signed. He’s found himself wandering the promenade in his time off, people-watching and reveling in the sudden new burst of free time, absent endless battle reports and bioweapon symposiums. It was first vaguely interesting, then disconcerting, then strangely depressing, noting how few faces he now recognized in the bustle. Home had become, after all these years, as lonely as he remembered from before them. Even the holosuite battle simulations were less fun without a companion. Without Miles to talk to, he started noticing the enemy combatants’ faces, both the vivid detail, and also how if he paid attention, he saw duplicates in the crowd, realized that there were only about a dozen distinct models. He wasn’t sure if this revelation made the projections easier or harder to kill.

Ezri wasn’t wrong about his annihilation fantasies. 

As it turned out, Ezri was not interested in the Battle of Thermopylae, nor any of the other historical battle holoprograms he and Miles had spent so many loving hours playing and planning. The two of them always played with the gore rating lowered, but even the bloodless games unnerved her. Talking about it with her made him feel strange, as he attempted to justify himself to someone as she offered no judgment, but looked far too knowing as he stammered his defences. She’d explained that it made perfect sense as an anxiety response to the real battles all of them had fought in and survived, and pointed out that her not wanting to relive the traumatic experience didn’t mean he was wrong to do so. Her logical assessment made him squirm, caught under the microscope; he wondered if others felt similarly when he diagnosed them accurately just by looking. He wanted to insist it had nothing to do with trauma, but even to him, the blatancy of the denial is ludicrous. 

That wasn’t actually why they’d broken up, however.

“ _I want you to be honest with me Julian_ ,” she’d said in the middle of that miserable conversation, holding him in place with an intensity to her gaze that was both painfully familiar and altogether different. “ _Is this_ really _what you want_?” He’d almost flinched at the question.

“ _I’m not Jadzia_ ," she'd said, uncharacteristically forceful. " _I can’t be the friend Miles was. I can’t be the father-figure Benjamin was. And—_ ” she'd hesitated, biting her lip in the way he used to find so appealing, before he knew that it meant she was about to say something so truthful she knew it would hurt, but still thought it had to be said. “ _I can’t be the romantic partner you wanted Elim to be_.”

It was so startling he was left temporarily speechless. As was becoming far too common with Ezri, he’d flashed through a laundry list of defensive excuses, none of them adequate to express his disbelief at this non-sequitur. “ _That’s not,—why would you—Ezri, I can’t believe—_ ” he had strangled his own words, knowing how they sounded. 

“ _I dunno_ ,” she’d laughed, a little sadly. “ _I guess I really am too much of a therapist and too much of a mess to date someone who’s obviously still trying to figure out his emotions. I can barely manage my own_.” She’d stood up on her tiptoes, kissed his cheek very softly, hugged him very tightly, and then turned and left his quarters, ducking her head as she did so. Still awkward, still thrumming with her usual nervous energy, but with a confident set to her shoulders regardless. After less than two years, the strange alchemy of Deep Space Nine had transformed her too, the timid and anxious young woman now self-possessed, cool under fire. 

She’d said they both still needed to find themselves. Julian was all too aware of where to start looking; his fear was that what he most fervently hoped to find would by then be long gone. 

In the end, he wrote a letter, terribly stilted, and sent it via the official Federation subspace channel to the Provisional Cardassian Consulate, in the hope that it might be infrastructurally sound enough to pass the message along. He explained overformally his intent to take a commission with the relief forces, and his hope to see Garak in good health. He finished the letter with a plea _‘I hope that we will have found more to talk about’_ , and hit send with his eyes shut, half-hoping Garak would never receive it. 

A week’s worth of anxiety later, he got back _‘I look forward to your arrival’_. Nothing else, clarification least of all. 

Now, a month later, he doesn’t have a formal post (yet) has come to scope out the environment to gauge if he thinks it will be a good fit before he signs on, to minimize the risk of early transfer. Considering the current state of Cardassia, he can understand the precaution against burnout. In any event, it gives him the chance to talk to the person on this planet he is most fretfully eager to see. Julian’s pretty certain at this point that he’ll take the post regardless, but it’ll be nice to know where and whom to avoid should this reunion end as he fears, rather than hopes.

He spots a flash of white among the passersby, notices a placard with his own name on it, incongruously in Kardasi. The man holding the sign doesn’t stand out. Julian supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he’s in his element, quite literally. Nevertheless, it’s peculiar to see his magnetic friend as unobtrusive, just another face in the crowd. 

Garak greets him palm raised, and Julian presses his own flat against it, remembers being twenty-six and painfully naive. 

“Doctor,” Garak says, “I must admit, I’m a little surprised to see you.”

“You said you’d like to think you’d see me again," Julian replies, hopes he doesn't sound defensive.

“I also said it seemed unlikely. How strange that your Federation optimism has won the day again.” There is no bitterness in his voice, though he does seem hushed by the force of some emotion.

“Garak,” Julian begins, “I feel like we left on complicated terms. I’d like to talk about it. I feel like I owe you an explanation, and several apologies.” The words come out more rushed than he’d like, excoriating as they are. They are necessary, however; this trip means nothing without them. Garak silences the rest of whatever he thinks he was going to say, the babbling sure to follow his initial coherency, with a finger against Julian’s lips. 

“Perhaps, my dear,” he suggests, “we might more favorably discuss it over a meal? I regret that it is rather late in the afternoon for lunch.”

"And," he adds, halting, "I think at this point you have long since earned the right to my given name." The distant formality of the construction hides the intimacy of the request. It is exactly like him. 

Julian notices with a stab of aching fondness, a single strand of gray running like silver thread through Garak’s hair. He wants to touch it, not to pluck it out as he once irritably did to his own, but just to caress, to let the movement be gentle. He wants this, so he does it. Garak— _Elim_ , starts, then stills, as Julian’s hand finds his face, thumb moving slowly over the gray hair among its fellows. 

“We could get dinner,” he suggests, and Elim grants him a ghosting smile. 

“I would like that,” he says. “We have so very much catching up to do.” Elim turns his head just slightly, enough to press his lips impossibly lightly against Julian’s palm. It’s all he can do not to pull Elim closer, to hold back, keep to propriety and the still-fraught boundaries left between them. Elim closes that distance himself, leaning further into Julian’s palm as he steps forward. They are standing close enough that Julian can feel the warmth of his friend’s body distinct from the baking heat, close enough to breathe the same air. 

“You never lost my trust, Julian. Our estrangement did not change that.” He is standing so very close. 

“Elim I missed you,” Julian breathes. _I love you_ , he thinks, can finally admit it, and wonders if one day he will be able to say it. His friend, his dear friend whom he loves and who he’s denied for far too long catches his face in both hands. 

“I am right here, my dear infuriating, incorrigible Doctor. You have me,” he whispers, and meets Julian’s mouth with his own. 

Elim’s lips are warmed by the heat, but still cooler than he expects. He kisses Julian hungrily, like he’s been waiting years for this moment. He has. They both have. Julian smiles into Elim’s kiss, feels the perpetual weight he carries drop for just a moment, feels lighter than he has since before the war. This feels like finding himself. It feels like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Effie for bearing with me getting your gift to you less than three days before the deadline. It's...been that kind of year.


End file.
